Hastings to Lydd – A Bit of a Slog for an Old Dog.

I will reiterate that Hastings charmed me last night. I’d previously wandered around the town between trains and thought it was really ropey, like Eastbourne. And it is, but it has an injection of new folk. Fun folk who might have gone to Brighton but either can’t afford it or don’t like the posey people there (or both). So that is my (relatively uninformed) view of the Sussex coast scene. When has fact ever shaped my opinions?

Day dawned, somewhere above the cloud, and I took a photo from my room and went back to sleep.

I was reawakened by some prat roaring down the front on a motorbike. And then he (on the balance of probability) did it again and again. But the noises were different, so I cleverly concluded that it was different bikes. Lots of em.

I woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head – Christ knows why because I haven’t got any hair there but thanks anyway Paul. And cruised down to a local greasy spoon. This is what made Britain great. Not cheese or croissants or muesli but a full on big bloody English/Irish/Welsh/Scottish. This full Monty created the greatest Empire the world has ever seen!

Not that we’re proud of imperialism or the way we achieved it, but I’m proud of my country. It means a lot. Even these stupid, noisy pillocks who woke me up!

You’ve got to admire eccentricity.

And then Hastings sprung another one on me. Jack in the Green. This is relatively new, it only goes back to the 1700s, but it is a celebration of the coming of summer. There were hundreds of Jacks!

Eventually I dragged myself away from this town of two halves. I’d decided to scramble down the coast rather than walk over the cliffs, but a bloke warned me it was a very high tide today and it was coming up. When have warnings …..etc. It looked like I had a good concrete walkway so away I went.

But the walkway ended and I was stumbling across boulder fields like an old b’stard. I couldn’t get inland because the cliffs were crumbling and where they were lower the vegetation was spiky and too dense for a normal bloke, or even me to try.

After two hours of the tide coming up and me stumbling over boulders I saw a fisherman. Salt of the earth. He must have got down a different way because the tide was high and I’m moving on. Thanks Debbie.

He pointed me in the right direction for a way through the thorns.

Freeeedom! As well as a beautiful, but very steep climb up to the top of the cliffs. Thank Christ (again) that I didn’t have a tent and all the etc to carry. And thank him for a reyt good path through the wild garlic and bluebells.

It was an hour’s climb to the top. These cliffs are steep and initially difficult. It was then reminiscent of the Southwest Coastal Path, getting to the top and then dropping back down again and down and up and down.

After too many hours of negotiating this stretch I reached a proper coastal path. This is looking back at it, for your orientation.

And eventually dropping down to sea level again. I was well behind what I thought my time would be. Pretty pathetic But don’t worry Dave. You’re not as crap as you think you are. Hoooray!

It was a long schlep (thank you Ziva) along the beach, enlightened by the RNLI speeding along the shoreline. Hooray!

And then it was head down and crack on to Rye. But what delights in between! Commissioned by Henry the eighth this was a castle originally on the shore. Now half a mile from from the sea.

Eventually Rye appeared on the horizon, originally one of the Cinque Ports but now landlocked. The sea level dropped. Reyt weird.

Rye city gates were impressive!

And there were still fishing boats moored in it’s estuary.

Then I began the last stage of my 22 mile walk to Lydd. And did it hurt! Yes it did actually. The route passed between the estuary to the right and the lake to the left in this photo.

I cut across a golf course for a mile and a half and this was a remnant of the WW2 machine gun post overlooking the14th fairway. Whatever happened we had to defend our golfing. Ffs!

Then it was just a slog across the Romney Marshes to Lydd. Miles of walking through flatlands with nobody there, and a strange atmosphere for someone from the hills like me.

But I made it. The hotel is nice and cheap and all is well with the world. Nine hours of walking and I feel quite ok. Love to you all.

Night night.